


Perimo

by westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Drama, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-02-17
Updated: 2002-02-17
Packaged: 2019-05-30 13:27:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15097619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist/pseuds/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist
Summary: A stalker tries to get a bit too close to CJ.





	Perimo

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

**Perimo**

**by:** Liza (aka NDV)

**Pairing:** CJ  & Toby

**Characters:** CJ, Toby,  & Josh

**Category:** Romance, Drama, Angst.

**Rating:** MATURE

After Rossyln, when she wore Josh's blood and the only person within reach was herself, she fell back into the mode that dictated professional conduct, and let her own arms fall from the hug she'd enveloped herself in. But for a moment frozen forever, the wide angle of a camera caught her as she turned, horror and desolation painted on her face, from the shattered window that could've been - and if fate had had its way, probably should have been \- her, to where a river of blood leaked down cold stone steps, a pale hand upturned and fallen in its way. The cameraman, along with Sam, an EMT, and the world that would soon turn on CNN, watched silently as she lifted her hand to her forehead, blood tingeing her fingertips, and fell to her knees, soon crawling head down to reach her fallen comrade. Dry-eyed, she grasped his bloody hand in her own, kissed the back of his hand, and held it to her heart. She said nothing, just watched, examining his face for any sign of life. But she saw nothing, a twisted sort of wide-eyed-innocence across her own features as the EMT finally reached them. 

"He's alive," she's squeaked, million-dollar vocabulary gone, even though her mind quite coherently screamed, "Oh My God. Not Josh...notJosh...notjoshnotjoshnotjosh." 

The man nodded gravely as others joined him, "He's alive," he agreed, and she pried her hand from his, the one unwilling to let go. But within seconds, Toby's hand was on her shoulder and she stood quickly, Sam's eyes before her own as he pressed his handkerchief to her head and asked her if she was okay. She opened her mouth to say no, but over Toby's shoulder she saw a stray cameraman and the Press Corps behind police lines, and unflinchingly, she lied, "I'm fine. Fine." She wiped her hand on the exposed bit of blouse and rebuttoned her coat. The look she'd worn shuttered itself away for another time, another place, and she stepped toward the press, drawn face, pale skin, bloodied clothes, the picture of strength, the face of the party. The image of wholeness once again in place, though half of her heart was lying on the stone steps where her friend had fallen. 

For just that moment, which CNN played that night over and over before retiring it, the camera had panned to CJ Cregg and the United States of America collectively held its breath at the look on her face, anguish, horror, fascination; then the country went to bed as the camera moved and no one saw her as she wept. Then came the detachment and then came the shock, the numbness, the need. And when they heard that he, the Deputy Chief of Staff, was alive and would be fine, the Senior Staff rejoiced in the waiting room, laughing, smiling, weeping. But CJ sat alone, watching them, holding her breath. When she walked away, no one saw, but when she was gone, he knew; Toby and Leo looked out the window together, exchanging worried glances as she hailed a cab. He said he'd give her time, they all should, but Toby just glared, thinking of Scotch, clean clothes, and the men that would paw her at the bar she'd soon find. 

After Rosslyn, while the others though of Josh, survival, miracles, family, and forgot about her, Claudia Jean Cregg sat in a smoky jazz bar not dignified enough to call itself a club. She nursed one of Toby's standard scotch-rocks and watched with bleary eyes as a hand fell on her exposed knee in the cramped quarters, and then she decided to leave. Later, she left his apartment six blocks down and walked to her own, his business card in her hand. Suddenly, she felt sober. 

After the Newseum and the shooting and Rosslyn, she just wanted to feel something, anything. And no one asked where the bruises, already fading or covered, came from because they didn't see, didn't know, and she wasn't in shock anymore. 

A year later there was Manchester, her slip to the press - a royal fuckup - and subpoenas. Babish said she was trying to bring herself back into things with one swoop, and she ignored him, refusing to admit it to him or any of them. That night she was tired and hungry and the beer made her ears buzz, but she didn't complain when he opened his door six blocks away and his hand placed itself somewhere higher than her knee. Drunk, angry, dirty, she left again, her heard sore from crashing into the headboard and her arm throbbing from hitting a table. The other bruises were lazy and hidden, but her legs felt tight and her stomach nauseous and she wept as she passed through her own door. 

And he sat in his bed, smiling but brooding, silently scheming to make her purposefully and irreplaceably his. 

The obsession had begun. 


End file.
